


A Vessel for Forgiveness

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Headcanon, And some...., Angel & Vessel Interactions (Supernatural), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Based on a Tumblr Post, Episode: s15e09 The Trap, Heavy Angst, Humor, Interesting, M/M, Not My Headcanon But a Brilliant One, Post-Episode: s15e09 The Trap, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:22:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22344784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: Everything seems normal enough. The books are tidy on the shelves. The tables are in order. The silence is a little jarring, but that's to be expected in a super house consisting of only three other people.He glances down and finds, to his surprise, he's holding a Leviathan flower. He could've sworn he gave that to—Cas rushes to the nearest mirror.Dean stares back at him.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 67





	A Vessel for Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writingmyowndestiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingmyowndestiel/gifts).



> Inspired by a theory post on Tumblr by @paper-lilypie. Thank you for the inspiration!!!
> 
> Big props to one of my best friends IRL, @writingmyowndestiel, who more than willingly beta-ed this. I think they're a little more than excited I'm getting back into Destiel.
> 
> But seriously, this fic wouldn't be nearly as clean without them so <33333

**A Vessel for Forgiveness**

_"If you could read my mind love_

_What a tale my thoughts could tell_

_About a ghost from a wishing well_

_In a castle dark or a fortress strong_

_With chains upon my feet…”_

At first, Cas thinks he's back in the Empty.

It's dark and cold. Not even just temperature cold. Bitter cold. The kind of cold that settles beneath your skin and lingers, like a singed nerve.

There's even a reflection of himself staring back at him.

Except the difference is there isn't just one of him this time. There's multiple.

The first, black goo dripping from his eyelids and onto his agape mouth, cocks his head curiously at him.

The second wears a beard that stretches ear-to-ear, like the drugged-out smile on his face.

The third is blooded and beaten, staring at Cas with eyes as devoid as the hole in his head.

The fourth dons a hoodie, smelling distinctly of peanut butter and rainwater, shivering and sputtering as he reaches for Cas.

The last is just as beardy as the other two. The soles of his shoes are coming apart and he’s got one too many wrinkles in his trench coat. He’s so stiff, he’s almost classifiably catatonic.

“He did this to us, you know," Leviathan Castiel says.

"Hey man, he couldn't stop it," Endverse Castiel chimes in, lighting a cigarette. The smoke evaporates as soon as it hits the air. "Well..." He pauses to take a drag. "Maybe he could've stopped the apocalypse. And my Hydrocodone addiction."

"He could've stopped hurting me," Beaten Castiel responds. Cas recognizes him from the night of the Stynes murders.

"It's not his fault he chose Sam's safety over mine," Homeless Castiel adds, pulling the drawstring on his hoodie tight over his face. "It's not like I was any use anyway."

"He didn't save me," Purgatory Castiel says. "Never could."

Then, as if someone turned on a radio, Dean's voice comes through.

But it's not Dean's. It's a recording. Dozens of them, all at once—whispering, yelling, and begging everything over the sun. Some Cas has heard before. Others he hasn't.

_"I prayed to you, Cas! Every night!"_

_"Whatever you did, or didn't do... Please, man, I need you here.”_

_"Dumb son of a bitch."_

_"What happened to you?"_

_"Oh, you think you have a choice."_

_"It's a gift. You keep those."_

More come pouring in until they drown Cas's ears. He covers them from the onslaught, but it's no use. Dean's voice has always overpowered him after all.

Then, it stops.

All five versions of Castiel vanish. There's a flash of white and, like a camera coming into focus, his eyes adjust to the Bunker.

Everything seems normal enough. The books are tidy on the shelves. The tables are in order. The silence is a little jarring, but that's to be expected in a super house consisting of only three other people.

He glances down and finds, to his surprise, he's holding a Leviathan flower. He could've sworn he gave that to—

Cas rushes to the nearest mirror.

Dean stares back at him.

"Dean?" Sam's voice floods the empty hallway as he and Eileen come rushing up. "Dean! Did you get it? Where's Cas?"

**Cas. Dammit, Cas, speak! He's gonna think something's wrong!**

Dean’s voice comes through so loud and clear it takes the couple in front of him out of focus—Cas’s focus.

Which is actually Dean’s focus.

Oh no.

Something is wrong, Cas emphasizes, really, really wrong.

**You seriously don't remember? It's the only way you were gonna pass through Purgatory.**

Oh sorry if I don't remember anything while spinning through your drunken, stuporous vortex of a mind.

**Now is not the time to psychoanalyze me.**

Kind of hard not to, given the circumstances.

**Will you** please **?**

"Um..." Cas clears his throat, trying to imitate Dean's smolder he does when he's at a crossroads between perplexed and pained. He even licks his lips and drops his voice. "He, uh... Cas... he didn't..."

Sam's head drops. Eileen moves to comfort him when something stops her. She raises a finger at Cas—Dean—and remarks, "What was that?"

"What?" Cas asks.

"That," she says with an eerie uncertainty that makes her retract her hand, "that flash in your eyes. It was bright blue."

Sam whips his head up. "Wait... Cas?! Don't tell me.”

"What am I missing here?" Eileen asks.

**Were you gonna say you died back there?!**

It’s basically the truth. I’m dead to you as it is.

"Are you talking to Dean right now?"

Cas’s—rather Dean’s—lack of response prompts a scoff from Sam.

"Well, well. This is a twisted form of couple's therapy."

"Shut up, Sam."

“ _There_ he is."

"Okay, _look here,_ Samuel—"

As Cas lets Dean take the reins of his vessel again, the scene before him pans out to his peripheral and plays in the background like a soft, un-choreographed Bach tune—reckless, but familiar.

That's when another version of himself materializes before him.

When he lifts his head, he can see he's clean-shaven, donning a purple cardigan over a blue button-up. He recognizes him—or rather, _himself_ — as Emmanuel, the man he became after drowning in that lake.

"I remember..." he says, "I remember everything."

"What's everything?" Cas asks.

He gets his answer when this version of himself drops to the floor, screaming and kicking as something tears open his jacket.

They're wings. But they look more like severed tree branches, bonded together by blood.

"He did this to me!" he yells into the vast empty.

Emmanuel buries his head in his hands and sobs before he too vanishes in a cloud of ash.

That's when it clicks.

Whipping back around, he pulls Dean’s point of view back into focus, only to face a black screen. He’d wonder if Dean’s sleeping, if not for the slamming of drawers and the over-the-top hum of a Zeppelin tune.

He’s intentionally tuning Cas out of his head.

Fucking asshole.

Dean! he calls.

No answer. He tries again, this time louder. If that's even possible inside someone's mind.

Dean!

"What? What?! Dude, can I get some privacy?!"

Dean, I'm literally inside your head, what could you possibly be doing that warrants—?

Like shutters to a window, Dean’s point of view snaps back up to reveal a reflection of Dean’s half-naked body in his mirror.

_This_ is what he was embarrassed about?!

Dean. Is it slipping you that I put you back together, piece by piece, when I ripped you from Hell? I’ve seen every inch of your body.

"You…? Whatever. Still!” Dean insists, hands flying to cover his exposed nipples. “It's weird, man."

Fine, I'll turn away.

"Thank you."

So, can we talk about it now?

"Depends," he says, shucking off his jeans next. He may pull off the holes, but he doubts black goo will be 'in' any time soon. "What're we talking about?"

Why you're so mad at me. The real reason.

There's a pause. Cas said he wouldn't turn around, but he doesn't have to. He can feel Dean tense up, because he too tenses. The voices start up again inside Dean’s head. Instead, this time, they're Cas's.

_"Dean, you know I enjoy our talks. Our time together."_

_"I rebelled for this?! So that you could surrender to them?!"_

_"You're my family. I love you."_

_“Dean! Go!”_

_"We live in a 'Sorry' universe. It's engineered to create conflict."_

You never were mad, were you? Cas asks.

Even though he's not looking directly at Dean, he knows he's nude in more than just the physical sense. He knows because the black empty walls surrounding him are starting to peel like old wallpaper.

You're guilt-ridden. You're pushing me away because you consider me—consider us—a failure.

Dean pauses, tightening and untightening his fists before sinking on the edge of his bed. He hangs his head and, softly, in the glow of his lamplight after a moment’s hesitation, says, "After mom, I just lost hope again that I’d ever have anything good. So I got angry. And I pushed you away again. And I ruined that too."

Who says you ruined it?

Dean lifts his head, aligning himself with the mirror above his dresser again. Even though he can’t see Cas, he can feel him. _Really_ feel him. How hurt he is. How disjointed and dejected he feels.

He had a family. Sure, they played him like one of their harps, but there was always an angel when Cas needed them. Could he say the same? Could he say the same when he kicked Cas out of the Bunker? Or how about when he left him to rot in a mental institution? Or, even better—when he fucked him up in a universe that hadn’t even been created yet.

And even more recently. When Cas, really, didn’t do anything wrong except exist in the wrong place at the wrong time. Dean can empathize with that.

So why hasn’t he?

"You walked out, Cas,” Dean says, “I’d say that constitutes ruining something.”

I'm here now.

"Yeah," he scoffs, "yeah, I guess I deserve this."

Maybe you’re right.

“How do you mean?”

Do you trust me, Dean?

Dean faces the mirror again with an unwavering gaze and speaks telepathically as he responds, **More than I trust myself.**

That’s when Dean’s hand, not of his own volition, pushes on his chest until he’s lying on his bed.

Then, the opposite hand reaches up and wraps around his neck. It doesn’t stay there for long though.

Breath hitching, Dean’s hand pushes his index finger into his mouth. He obliges, sucking on it like it’s what he was meant to do, taking it all the way down to the knuckle.

Before he can take a second finger, his hand is sliding down the length of his body—from the underside of his chin, over his Adam’s apple, between the flat of his breasts, and down his abdomen—all while leaving a trail of saliva sticky on his newly perspiring body.

When his hand is just short of his boxers, it falters. Dean moans something desperate, squirming on the bed as he does so, and that’s enough consent for his hand to slip underneath the waistband. Toes curling upon contact, Dean uses his other immobile hand to grip the sheets.

You deserve better, Dean Winchester.

A firm upward stroke.

Dean holds back another moan so poorly he can feel the back of his throat.

Say it.

A downward stroke.

‘I deserve better.’

A slow, tantalizing circling motion on the head of his cock with his thumb.

Say it, Dean. 

The motion doesn’t stop, but it doesn’t progress either. Dean tries arching into it, but the more he does, the further his hand retracts from his prick. When he tries lifting his other hand, they both go flying behind him until they’re in an ‘x’ formation, pinned down to his pillow by an invisible force.

**Okay, okay,** he surrenders, **I deserve better.**

I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that.

**What?!**

Say it out loud. I want the world to know.

“Ah, fuck,” Dean pants. He glances down at his boxers, soaked at the tip, and groans. He’s so sweaty now he can’t differentiate the sweat from the saliva trail. “Okay, alright.”

Alright what?

“I deserve better.”

Louder.

“I deserve better!”

One more time.

_“I! Deserve! Better!”_

It’s like Cas flips an internal switch Dean didn’t know he had. Without even touching him, the floodgates open. Dean’s eyes, along with his abdomen and cock, flash a burning blue and he cums with so much force, it rattles the bed frame.

As he lay there, recovering, Dean speaks up, “You know, Cas… you deserve good things too.”

He can’t see it, but he can feel it when Cas smiles because his own lips turn up. “I have that, right here, in the palms of my hands.”

_“The story always ends_

_And if you read between the lines_

_You'll know that I'm just trying to understand_

_The feeling that you left…”_

**_~ “If You Could Read My Mind”, Gordon Lightfoot_ **


End file.
